


The pale light on centre stage

by queerly_it_is



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Butt Plugs, Dirty Talk, Dominance, Exhibitionism, Fingerfucking, Leashes, Lucifer is Sam's dom, M/M, Porn With Plot, Public Sex, Sex Club, Submission, collaring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-13
Updated: 2012-07-13
Packaged: 2017-11-09 21:53:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/458855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queerly_it_is/pseuds/queerly_it_is
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As strange as it seems until it’s actually happening; Sam <em>lives</em> for nights like these</p>
            </blockquote>





	The pale light on centre stage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [obstinatrix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/obstinatrix/gifts).



> Written for obstinatrix's birthday!

As strange as it seems until it’s actually happening; Sam _lives_ for nights like these.

He’s kind of a prideful guy, and in his everyday, working life; control is a pretty big deal to him. You don’t win cases or secure contracts by letting other people dictate the way you do things, and you don’t get ahead by not being ruthless when it counts.

Needless to say; Sam is damn good at his job. 

It’s the other stuff he has trouble with.

Which is maybe why he gets so desperate for Lucifer to take all that vigilance and authority; all his control; and use it to break him down until it feels like he can _breathe_ again; that embarrassing _need_ to be taken apart and put back together again; turned liquid and moulded so his edges fit without scraping against one another and cutting him to ribbons.

He’s been waiting - _hoping_ \- for this for over a week now. He knows he’s been snappy, irritable; barely sleeping and not eating enough. He gets like this after a huge trial is finally over; stress feeding into itself until he can’t _think_ around the tightness in his stomach and the pressure in his head, running over all the things he _could_ have done better; all the ways he isn’t _good enough_.

This is why they _work_ ; because as soon as a simple demand that Sam ‘sit the fuck down and _eat_ something’ had turned into a full on screaming match in the middle of the kitchen; Luc had gone utterly _still_ in a way that somehow always causes Sam’s anger to fizzle out like a fire starved of oxygen, and left the room with that calm, effortless gait like Sam _wasn’t_ standing there heaving in breaths with his fists clenched tight at his sides, vibrating with the need to _break_ something.

Sam’d stood there in the soft overhead light; whole body one giant knot of tension and misplaced aggression; until Lucifer had _sauntered_ back in, soft smile crinkling the corners of his blue-grey eyes as he held up a. A gleaming, flat, wooden box. The box that holds Sam’s collar. The box only Lucifer is _allowed_ to handle.

His breath had hitched.

“We’re going out.” Luc had said softly; eyebrows slightly raised and head dipped, in that ‘this-is-what’s-happening-do-not-push-me’ tone that draws the frustration and antagonism out of Sam like poison from a wound, until he’d been left trembling for an entirely different reason.

He hadn’t argued.

He never does, when it comes to this.

The drive to the club is silent, but comfortable. All of Sam’s attention narrowed on the weight of Lucifer’s hand atop his thigh; warm and grounding; a reminder that he _isn’t_ going to unravel into nothing, despite the anxious and jittery feeling under his skin.

His eyes fall shut; mind floating in an inky fog somewhere between overtired and excited; trying to keep his breathing deep and steady as Lucifer traces the lines of muscle in his upper thigh beneath the thin cotton pants, soothing but no less arousing.

Not that it matters. He’s been hard since before they even left the house.

The brief journey becomes a total blur of distant sensations; the low, vibrating note of the SUV’s engine, the rush of passing cars, the dim-bright-dim-bright of streetlights overhead. All of it fades and becomes secondary to the firm-gentle grasp on his leg; the sound of Lucifer’s voice as he talks about random unimportant parts of his day; knowing Sam’s only paying attention to the _presence_ of his voice rather than the actual words.

Once they arrive, Lucifer uses gentle fingertips to turn Sam’s head to face him, waiting until Sam forces his eyes open; difficult in the dazed headspace that just the _thought_ of doing this has already nudged him into. The other man’s eyes are warm and affectionate; mouth just _slightly_ curved with fond amusement, and Sam can’t help but return it.

The smile is good. It means Lucifer’s pleased with him, that he’s been good.

“Do you want the collar now, or do you want to wait until we’re in the main room?” Soft words of mostly breath; skittering down the length of Sam’s spine like a caress, and his mouth is suddenly dry; tongue clicking and adhering to the roof of his mouth as he _makes_ himself answer, Lucifer just waiting and watching; eternally patient.

“N-Now. Please.” Syllables already cracking; the damage spidering outward until his breath is broken, gets forced from his throat as a choppy whimper.

“Sshh, it’s alright Sam.” Gentleness more undoing than any shout could hope to be, and he grips the sides of his seat as Lucifer lifts the box from the back; sight of those strong fingers on the polished wood causing Sam’s heart to skip; hollow in his chest where there was once a rhythm.

The collar is dark brown leather, only a few shades darker than Sam’s hair; smooth and so sensuous to the touch that it almost feels liquid against his skin, inner lining impossibly silky; the whole thing _just_ thick enough that the weight is always present, unavoidable. The silver buckle glints in the yellowy dusk of the car‘s interior lighting; the looping, engraved ‘ _L_ ’ on the ornate, hanging tag that Lucifer _knows_ Sam needs to _see_ before it gets fastened around his neck.

It fits perfectly, every time. It was _made_ for him, and that’s comforting; the knowledge that Lucifer _owns_ something that’s practically a piece of Sam; tangible proof that he belongs somewhere. _To_ someone.

It settles around his neck like Lucifer’s fingers; warm and possessive, so utterly _perfect_ thathe twitches in the seat; jerk of his cock leaving a visible wet stain against the fabric. He can feel the kettledrum of his pulse fluttering beneath the leather; slight _tighten_ when he inhales that has him wanting to draw in a huge breath and hold it, just to keep the collar there against his Adam’s apple.

He’s leaking almost constantly; pulses of it from his slit where it’s pressed against the cotton, cooling against the burning flesh.

No underwear. No layers. Just sleep pants; a worn, dark blue v-neck shirt and battered sandals; enough clothing to be ‘decent’ until they get inside the club and Lucifer can undress him again.

Lucifer on the other hand, is still wearing most of his suit; only the tie missing where he’d tucked it into a jacket pocket before popping the top few buttons of his pure-white shirt; losing the formal appearance but none of the careful, precise _power_ that Sam responds to. That Sam _needs_.

He follows along as Lucifer heads for the restricted entrance at the side of the club; single deep red light above a coal-black door, like a patch of starless sky washed in blood; sweeping gold letters of ‘ _Members Only_ ’ sparking flares into the night, beckoning.

The door opens silently even before they reach it, and the man Sam knows only as ‘Crowley’ steps from the shadows like a wisp of night clothed in Armani and a façade of English manners.

“Gentlemen.” Subtle nod and voice oily-warm as he stands aside to wave them in, eyes not passing over Sam so much as _through_ him; tiny pause on the collar in recognition that Sam isn’t to be spoken to right now.

He wouldn’t be capable of answering anyway.

Lucifer nods, polite and untouchable as ever, and keeps a casually controlling hand pressed to the small of Sam’s back as they move down the corridor, past the line of expressionless doorways to ‘their’ room; the one that’s been reserved for them and _only_ them ever since that first time.

The buttons on the keypad _click_ softly as Lucifer enters the combination, until the lock flips open and Sam’s being ushered inside. It’s warm but not cloying; designed for comfort without the need for clothes, well lit but not harshly so; walls and floor a colour palette of red and black with accents of darkest blue. Lucifer moves to the far side of the room as Sam stays near the door; and he examines the ‘toys’ on the shelves before crossing the room again; swift and purposeful; making Sam shiver.

“Take this off.” He says, enchanting and powerful as he runs the knuckles of one hand up Sam’s front; dips two fingertips into the V that runs between the muscles of his chest. Sam complies without a thought; hands only shaking a _little_ as he folds the shirt precise and automatic, hands it to Lucifer to place on one of the padded benches.

Lucifer steps in close, wash of displaced air and faint scent of him like looming thunder, places that warm-dry hand over Sam’s pounding heart; fingers splayed wide and not _quite_ in contact with the rapidly tightening buds of his nipples. The hand moves lower; turns until the fingers are pointing downward; toward the floor, toward his _dick,_ and Sam can’t help the shudder or the catch of his breathing.

Faint chuckle and a pleased smirk. “These too.” Gentle tug at the elastic waistband, and Sam tries to get them down his legs without moving away from the hand pressed _just_ below his navel. He manages it somehow, and the pants end up a neatly folded square sitting on the shirt, the sandals kicked off and nudged beneath the bench.

He stands naked but for the collar, and feels at home in his own skin in a way he _never_ does dressed to the nines in tailored suits, or lounging around in baggy jeans.

His dick is a hot iron curving up toward his stomach; translucent string of precome _slowly_ descending toward the ground in a slick line. It’s perverse; how hard Lucifer’s calculating gaze hits him, the delineated line of his undeniable erection in the black pants, the way his eyes have gone from light to stormy grey. The signs of want are subtle, but it’s that seamless _control_ that Sam really wants focused on him; attentive and loving and overwhelming by turns.

Sam’s hands are open by his sides; fingers twitching, restless with the need to do _something_ , but he hasn’t been told to yet, and he implicitly _knows_ he isn’t allowed to touch _himself_. His body doesn’t belong to him here and now; he’s handed it all over, willingly, in the hope that it’s enough.

Another bead of precome drips to the floor.

Lucifer’s eyes slide over Sam’s body; bare feet to groin to collar, over his face and then back down; distinct feeling of all his parts and pieces being weighed and measured. He nods and presses a soft, lingering kiss to Sam’s surprise-slackened mouth; at the same moment that he skims the pad of his thumb over the tip of Sam’s cock. He swallows the high, fractured noise Sam makes, and then moves back enough to suck the thumb into his mouth; eyes locked to Sam’s like burning ice or roiling cloud.

Sam isn’t sure how he’s still standing.

Probably because Lucifer hasn’t _told_ him he could do otherwise.

“You understand why I had to do this, don’t you Sam?” He doesn’t _mean_ to jump at the kind, silky-smooth words, but he wasn’t expecting anything that’d require a real response.

“Yes.” Pushes the roughened word from between lips that’re still tingling like a phantom touch. Lucifer’s one eyebrow twitches up, like he’s waiting for something, and Sam hastily adds “Sir.”

He’s not sure how big a mistake that was, but Lucifer seems more reluctantly amused than annoyed, so he‘s only mentally kicking himself a little.

“Over there, on your back.” He gestures to the larger bench in the middle of the room; supple black leather _just_ wide enough for Sam to lie flat on without wobbling to one side or the other; but still short enough that either his legs or his head will dangle off the end, depending which Lucifer wants the most access to.

He shivers.

He arranges himself as best he can while Lucifer faces the wall of shelves that house the various toys and items they’ve added to their collection since they started coming here; floggers, clamps, cockrings, vibrators of at least a dozen different sizes, plugs, a whip, paper-thin blades of pure silver, the sounding kit.

He has to force himself to stop looking at them; each one is a personal favourite they’ve had put in here for their exclusive use, and each one carries enough scalding-hot memories to make Sam more edgy than he already is. He tries to focus on his breathing, the way Lucifer is always telling him to when he needs to stay in control; listens to the muted pound of the music from the main room, almost inaudible with how well insulated the private rooms are.

The brush of fingertips over his closed eyelids makes him smile, and the fingers follow the curve of a cheekbone, around to his mouth. He opens for them; instinct and desire both, sucks them in and laps at the whorls of Lucifer’s fingerprints with his tongue, soft moan at the hint of salt on the skin. The fingers pull back, and he whines at the loss without thinking, blushes at the chuckle that reaches his ears.

He hears the telltale plastic _snick_ of a bottle cap, and his dick jerks against his belly, fresh blurt of fluid from the head as he spreads his legs.

“So eager, Sammy.” Fake reprimand blended with real approval, and Lucifer nudges Sam’s legs wider as he steps between them; bench high enough that the insides of Sam’s thighs are on the outsides of his own; shuff of skin against the fabric of his pants sending tingles down to his toes.

The slick-cool touch of lubed fingers to his hole is expected, but _still_ makes him jerk all over even as he flattens his palms on the underside of the bench, shoulders tensing and arms trembling as he holds himself in place like a vice while Lucifer slides a finger all the way into him in a long, slippery _push_. He arches as much as he can on the too-small bench; moans hot and low and pathetically needy as Lucifer twists his finger along his walls and scrapes over the spot inside him like he’s got a map. The sudden stretch burns even though it’s just one digit - they haven’t exactly done this in a few days with the way Sam’s been biting Luc’s head off like a rabid dog at every opportunity - sudden, heavy _fullness_ that he wants to shy away from and shove into at the same time; conflicting impulses keeping him still even better than the self-imposed bondage.

The second finger strokes around his rim for a moment before wriggling in alongside the first, and it’s so _good_ he almost snaps his spine trying to arch into the touch; before Lucifer’s free hand comes down on his chest and _pins_ him there like an insect onto cardboard. The burn of being filled that quickly has frissions of electricity and heat coursing through him, up and down his spine and building in the stiff length of his dick; making sweat break out across his skin that cools between the air and the red flush that’s almost covering him.

“Patience, Sam. Just take it.” He’s so _calm_ and collected while he scissors his fingers and works Sam open, and it only feeds into the _need_ to get more of him; his fingers, his _cock_ , anything he wants Sam to have.

He makes a garbled noise when his body spreads around a third finger; choked and desperate as Lucifer’s other hand slides up the damp, taut skin of his chest to tug on a nipple; sudden knife-edge of pain curling his toes and stealing the air from his lungs, hands spasming beneath the seat.

He can take more, he _knows_ he can, but he can’t form the words to ask - _beg_ \- for it, even if Lucifer _were_ inclined to give in to his pleading. The fingers in him push and twist against the tightness of his body; flash fire in his blood like there’ll be nothing left in his veins but steam, nothing in him at _all_ apart from whatever Lucifer wants to fill him with.

“Such a good slut for me, Sam. You’re doing so well.” He whimpers at the praise, tries to spread himself wider for Lucifer’s fingers as they shove deeper; slick running down between his cheeks to the seat, balls drawn tight and so heavy, cock aching.

It’s minutes, hours, days, _centuries_ before he’s suddenly empty and panting and there’s a noise in the room like a whine that he only knows is coming from _him_ because of the buzzing itch in his throat; the pressure against the collar like that’s all that’s tethering him to the earth.

Raising his head from where it’s hanging off the end of the bench is a mammoth task; feeling both weightless and like his bones are made of lead, no strength in his muscles and cool sensation of air against the mess of lube between his legs, contrast with the brand-hot line of his dick against the plane of his belly.

Lucifer is watching him as he slides his jacket down his arms; black giving way to the white beneath like daybreak, face half obscured by the shadows in the room. He rolls his shirtsleeves up to the elbow like he’s got all the time in the world; expression layered in idle appreciation as if Sam is a painting on the wall, or a mildly interesting bit of furniture. He drapes the jacket over Sam’s clothes on the other bench; tendons and muscles in his forearms shifting beneath the skin, shoulders bunching as he stretches over without leaving the wanton splay of Sam’s legs.

“I’m going to fuck you, Sam.” He says clear and matter-of-fact, click of consonants, and it’s like a hot poker or an icicle being jabbed into his chest; full-bodied shudder and clench of his slick insides in anticipation. Lucifer catalogues the whole reaction, smiles slow and serene as he moves in and lowers the zipper on his pants, soft sigh loud in the room as he frees the hard line of his cock, and Sam’s mouth waters and his legs twitch along with his hole, and he doesn’t even _care_ about how _hungry_ he must look right now.

“Keep your arms where they are.” Lucifer says as Sam goes to move them, and he immediately presses them tighter to the wooden underside of the bench; even though his shoulders are burning and his fingers are tingling from the awkward bend cutting off the blood flow. But even _that_ sensation is only heightening his arousal as Lucifer gets Sam’s legs wrapped around him tighter; ankles meeting behind him as Lucifer’s hands skim up the soft undersides of his thighs, grip tight and _lift_ up, spreading him obscenely wide.

The rounded head of Lucifer’s cock nudging at his hole stills him completely; every fibre of him going bowstring taut as he feels himself being split open around the flared shape of it; hot and insistent and inescapable. Lucifer doesn’t slow or pause; just leans his weight forward into Sam’s hips; searing hardness forcing inner muscles apart and branding him on the inside; thick weight of it going deeper and deeper until he swears he can feel it in his _throat_ , low, busted groan like he’s in pain even though it’s so fucking _good_.

Finally seated to the root; Lucifer grinds his hips in a slow, figure-eight that makes Sam’s eyes roll back into his head - made easier by how his head is dangling off the end of the bench - and his shoulders _ache_ from the need to push his whole lower body into the intrusion. Apparently satisfied with cooking Sam’s remaining brain cells; Lucifer starts a building rhythm of pulling out slow and smooth, only to drive back in even _harder_ while hauling Sam’s body back onto his cock with the bruising grip on his thighs.

Every forceful thrust rubs the fabric of Lucifer’s clothes across the undersides of his legs, and the softness is a taunt compared to the almost-brutal pounding of the dick inside him, sharp punch of pleasure with every glancing swipe over his prostate.

“Do you want to come?” Voice _finally_ breathy and roughened with sex and animalistic need, and Sam responds like a puppet with its strings being yanked on.

“ _Yes_ , God _please_ let me.” He’s rambling, iterations of _please_ repeated between harsher thrusts that jolt him ineffectively against the sweat-sticky leather; pace building like Lucifer is gonna come even though he never does until he _decides_ to, and Sam intuitively knows that he hasn’t _earned_ that yet.

“Do you think you _deserve_ to come, Sam?” Lucifer asks, impossible question given how _badly_ the pressure is welling behind his balls and Lucifer is stabbing his cock into Sam’s prostate with such precise, mind-shattering movements that he can’t _think_ much less reply out loud.

“ _Do_ you?” Punctuated by the way he pulls Sam flush with the line of his pelvis; so goddamn _deep_ that there can’t be room for anything else inside him, and speaking makes his tongue taste like salt and metal where he literally _bites_ it out.

“ _No._ ” He says, word like rock candy crunched between his teeth, and Lucifer hums like he can _taste_ it, sweet and lingering, and Sam _forces_ the cresting wave of his orgasm back as best he can; toes clenched so hard they _ache_ and teeth gritted enough that his jaw is throbbing. He manages, _barely_ , and flops uselessly back down onto the seat; stomach muscles trembling and sweat stinging in his eyes as Lucifer just _keeps fucking him_.

“Good boy, Sam. And since you’re not allowed to come, you can have something _else_.” And with that; like he’s been waiting for however many eternities they’ve been at this, he shifts his hands to the grooves of Sam’s hips; _pulls_ him in and _growls_ as he swells and twitches and floods Sam’s insides with sticky heat; drag of him going filthy-easy and so _wet_ , and Sam’s biting on his lip hard enough to _smell_ the coppery tang of blood he’s drawn.

“None of that.” Lucifer’s voice flowing into his ears as a thumb runs over his lip, frees it from the grip of Sam’s teeth, and Sam _can’t_ keep his hands where they are; just lets them drop and rest against the floor; his sprawl on the bench going even looser, vision unfocused, legs only kept up by the anchor of Lucifer‘s body.

When Luc pulls out of him on a sleek, frictionless glide that still somehow grates on Sam’s nerves like rough stones swept along a riverbed, Sam’s awaiting the sloppy feeling of all that come running out of him; down his legs and pooling between him and the body-warmed leather. What he gets instead is the unforgiving touch of hard rubber, something akin to a scream that gets demolished in his throat as Lucifer plugs him up; keeps him wet and open and _needing_.

The plug isn’t that large; at least compared to Lucifer’s dick; but it’s thick enough to make him yelp when Lucifer kneels at the end of the bench, grabs one of Sam’s lax hands and _pulls_ him up until he’s in some abstract version of a sitting position; hunched over his still-spread legs as he tries to pull in air against the pressure in his ass, the feel of Lucifer’s come shifting around behind it, the painful, heavy ache in his groin.

Only the way Lucifer’s fingers smooth the lines next to eyes tells him that he’s had them squeezed shut the whole time, and forcing them open makes purple spots dance in the air before he focuses on Lucifer’s face; hair darker with sweat that’s also on his upper lip and trailing shiny lines down his neck, past the folds of his shirt collar. He smiles when Sam blinks blearily at him, kisses him deep and open and controlling; stands with their hands still clasped together; draws Sam inexorably upward on shaky, jellified legs until he’s all the way vertical.

“You were very good, Sam.” Honest and proud as he straightens Sam’s collar so the tag faces front; runs a hand up his jaw and into his hair, scratches firmly over his scalp until Sam groans and his eyes want to close again from a different kind of pressure pleasure.

Lucifer tucks himself back into his pants; sex flush and sweat not lessening the disciplined air of control any more than the height difference between them. He reaches past Sam for something on the clothing-adorned bench, and when he holds it up Sam has to grip the base of his cock to stop the rush of blood from making him come on the spot.

It’s a leash.

“Let’s go and make an appearance, shall we?” For all that it _sounds_ like a question, it clearly isn’t; since Lucifer leans in and clips the leash - same brown leather, same burnished silver clasp - to Sam’s collar; before he turns and makes for the door.

Sam follows. Not much choice, even if he wanted one.

The corridor outside their room is a fairly short, linear stretch of dark, hardwood floor and red walls; which with the deep, repetitive _thud_ of nearby music creates an effect like walking inside a beating heart. Every step serves to remind him of the plug seated in his ass; shift of it with the movement of his legs; further hampered by still mostly-hard cock. His own heart is racing; and he’s trying to keep his gaze centred on the back of Lucifer’s head or on the hand with his leash twined around its fingers, rather than the rapidly approaching double swing doors to the main room of the club.

No such luck.

Lucifer pauses by the doorway, resonating _pound_ of the baseline from inside that Sam can feel in the floor; his feet, up his legs and reverberating against the plug until his knees want to buckle and his dick is throbbing again.

“Now Sam, when we go inside; don’t slouch, don’t duck your head, and try to smile. You’re going to be very popular.” He says, encouraging and genuine like Sam isn’t blushing redder than the wall he’s standing next to; mortified by where this is heading. It shouldn’t be making him _harder_ ; shouldn’t have him gripping down on the plug just to feel the slide of Lucifer’s come.

Before he can say anything, _think_ anything; Lucifer gives a short tug on the leash and pushes through the doors, Sam following in his wake.

He’s been in this room before, at least two dozen times in the few short years they’ve been coming to the club, but it’s never been like this. He’s usually in tight leather or scant mesh; clothing that leaves very little - or nothing - to the imagination, but still clothing; still a placebo-barrier between him and the hungry eyes of everyone else in the large, irregularly-shaped room.

But not this time. This time he’s bare, only the weight of the collar on his skin and the pressure of the silicone toy in his body, which just serves to make him feel _more_ exposed, _more_ like a cherished pet to be displayed.

He’s still not allowed to come.

The room isn’t overly crowded, but there are enough people that it still feels _full_ ; small groups lounging on couches with expensive drinks, eyes surveying the writhing throng on dance floor, or leaning close to speak over the almost deafening music. Others are pressed against the walls kissing; sucking, fucking. The roving shadows from the lights don’t hide the glossy shine of leather or the reflective spark of chains and studs and piercings. In one ‘corner’, the floor inclines into a large, square alcove where a St. Andrews’ Cross sits under shifting coloured lights; the collared man bound to it facing away from the onlookers as a tall woman in dangerous looking heels paces around him like a jungle cat; slim, jet-black line of the whip in her one hand trailing behind her, as she runs the long nails of her opposite hand over his welted back. Some people are simply standing at various places around the room; alone or in companionable silence, watching the goings on around them like it’s the most natural, comfortable thing in the world to watch others bare their kinks and fetishes for their pleasure.

The whole room seems to shift and undulate with the mass of bodies like a living thing, pulse of gothic music and shifting hue of spinning light, and already there are the glints of eyes turning to them from all around; watching as Sam is led out towards the approximate centre of the room like an animal. 

There’s a deep, shameful _heat_ flooding through him in waves that has nothing to do with how warm it is in the room.

They reach a slightly raised platform like a stage, complete with what passes for a spotlight in a club environment, and Lucifer steps smooth and flowing onto it before turning and raising an eyebrow at Sam. Not yanking on the leash. He wants Sam to do it without the order; willing surrender.

He steps up, only halting slightly as the plug shifts with the raise of his leg; and Lucifer pulls him close by twining the strip of leather tighter and tighter until his hand is resting on the collar, other going to Sam’s bare hip as he draws him in and licks his mouth open. Sam gives to it willingly, gladly; the wet slide of Lucifer’s tongue and the blunt pressure of nails raising lines on his skin, the itch between his shoulders that tells him they’re being _watched_ from more than just the dance floor Sam can see from where he’s standing; couples and groups pressed tight and moving together as they touch and whisper and _look_.

Lucifer’s hand moves into his hair, tugs to move his head aside, grey eyes flicking to a point behind Sam before he puts his lips to the shell of Sam’s ear; voice like liquid sin; smooth and compelling.

“They’re all going to see, Sammy. See how much you want it, how you let me use you, how badly you _need it_.” Nails raking fire down one side of his back and he arches into it at the same time the flash of humiliated _want_ makes him want to hide behind Lucifer like a shield.

There’s a large, curved seat that runs around the inside of the stage in a broken circle, a giant ‘C’ of leather and polished steel, and Lucifer takes a step back; sits with such an air of unruffled regality that it would look ridiculous on anyone else, but somehow makes Sam want to kneel and drop his head; press in close and nuzzle the warm space between Lucifer’s legs; play the subservient little pet like it’s all he’s good for.

Christ, there’s probably something _really_ wrong with him that that thought has him clenching his insides down _harder_ , hands on this thighs so he doesn’t touch his cock the way he’s dying to.

Lucifer leans back, slow pull on the leash that Sam doesn’t even _try_ to fight, and he ends up folding his knees onto either side of Lucifer’s spread thighs; cheeks spreading until he _knows_ the base of the plug is visible; murmur of the spectators behind him, others on the dance floor watching in blatant appreciation.

Sam bows forward a little at Lucifer’s urging, leash unclasped and left on the seat like a coiled snake; and Lucifer slowly widens his legs, forcing Sam to do the same until his thighs are starting to tremble from the strain. He’s trying to keep his eyes on Lucifer’s and not their encroaching audience; but even brief, unconscious glances show him how _many_ of them there are already; and he can’t contain the helpless little noise he makes.

Lucifer pushes his hands up Sam’s thighs, fits them around his hips and drags him closer like he weighs nothing. His hands move to Sam’s ass; grip him and spread him open until he can feel air moving against the slick that’s rubbed around the edge of the plug like ghostly fingers.

“So beautiful Sam. Such a good boy.” Words pouring into his ear as he pulls Sam tighter onto his lap, enough to feel the hard press of his dick beneath the suit, Sam’s own twitching in response and smearing precome onto his belly and Lucifer’s shirt.

The first touch of _actual_ fingers to the plug itself has him keening; needy animal sound that only sends more conflicting shame and arousal rocketing through him, and Lucifer shushes him gently as he slowly wraps his grip around it and _twists_. Sam bows up and collapses forward, and he can _hear_ the pleasure noises from around the room; doesn’t know how many are just wrapped up in each other and how many are watching _him_.

Lucifer _slowly_ begins to withdraw the plug, and Sam’s breathing stutters and his throat clicks and he’s so fucking _dirty_ and he wants them all to see when the come starts leaking from his fucked-out hole. It’s torture; trying to stay still while the unbearably smooth glide of plastic rubs all along his insides, small trickles of come warmed by his body already starting to trail down the backs of his thighs.

“So wet, Sam. All fucked loose and full of my come, and now they’re going to know it. They’re all going to see the proof of what a perfect little slut you are.” Words measured out in time with the constant, excruciatingly _sweet_ feeling of being completely protected and wanted, of being _special_ even if it is just as a toy.

Sam will be the best toy Lucifer could ask for.

There’s an audible gasp that seems to circulate like a breeze when the plug finally slips free; immediate tingle of wads of come flowing down the backs of his thighs; into the hollows of his knees, dripping onto the stage and pooling on the seat. Sam’s trying _so_ hard not to move; not to flinch away and cover himself as the press of bodies moves in closer; watching and talking and _touching_ themselves while Lucifer touches Sam.

“They all want you.” He says into the burning skin of Sam’s neck, above the line of his collar as he pushes his legs wider, more come spilling from him and running down the tight skin behind his balls, some of it reaching his dick and making him shiver. “They want to touch and feel and _fuck_ you. They don’t dare though, Sam. Because you’re _mine_ , and they can all see it; how you were made for me. Only me. My gorgeous little slut.” Breath raising goose bumps and words sending more blood to his skin, his _cock_.

New pressure in the cleft of him; sudden _shove_ and Sam’s yell dies a bloody death as two of Lucifer’s fingers work roughly into him through the mess of his own come, pressing _hard_ into the spot inside and making flares burst behind his eyes that eclipse the glow of the overhead lights.

“Wet like a girl, Sammy.” Slow drawl and smirk in the words; fingers crooking and stretching and it _hurts_ and it’s _not enough_ , and let them watch; them all _see_ how good he is; how well he takes what they can’t have.

Fingers tugging at his nipples, scratching lines into the skin beneath his collar, pulling on wet strands of his hair where they’re sticking to his temples, and something in Sam breaks open; fundamental shift from _wrong_ to _need more_.

“Fuck me again. _Please_ sir, fuck me.” Shameless begging that belies the knot of humiliated pleasure in his gut, voice wrecked and loud enough to carry as he tries to ride the hand pushing into him. He should feel used, debased, and in a way he _does_ , but he _needs this_ , and he’s not deluded enough to think the shame doesn’t make it hotter, better.

Lucifer doesn’t answer, but he raises his legs enough to prod Sam up higher, onto his knees, until he can free his cock and line himself up, and then Sam is being filled up again; so hot and thick and _alive_ and his head falls back between his shoulders as Lucifer uses a hand on his hip to tug Sam mercilessly deeper onto him; hips rolling slow and steady as a wave while Sam’s dick leaks pearly slick all over himself and his hands grip Lucifer’s shoulders; fingers scrabbling weak and useless at the skin-warm cotton.

Stroke of one hand through the sweaty, tangled mess of his hair. “Good boy Sam. So perfect for me, taking it like this. Always so much happier when you’ve got my dick in you.” Sam groans and shudders, muttering _yes_ and _please_ and _fuck me_ into the ears of everyone watching.

“I’m going to come in you again, Sam.” Words turning rough and heavy as he hauls Sam into his chest and thrusts his hips up so _deep_. “I’ll keep you filled up and sloppy so I can take you again and again, and you’re going to _love it_.” Swivel of his hips, people in the crowd moaning and following their rhythm like they can’t even help it.

Lucifer’s hand on his dick is such a sharp blow that he grips down tight on the hard pressure rubbing over his sweet spot, and Lucifer bites out a groan as he digs the nail of his thumb into Sam’s slit and squeezes under the head, pushing Sam’s dick through the circle of his fingers with the forceful grinding of his body.

“You’re going to shoot all over yourself; make a mess of this tight little body while I do the same to the inside. You‘re going to be so _wet_.” He says, no request or room for refusal, and he wraps a hand around Sam’s dick and tugs sharply with the motion of his hips once, twice. On the third harsh bolt of lightening pleasure; Sam chokes on a wounded noise and spills up his stomach, over Lucifer’s fingers, muscles locking and aching and still trying to ride the unrelenting movement of the man beneath him, intensity of it blinding and nova-bright as it consumes every thought and feeling; reduces him to cinders.

Lucifer presses Sam’s cock up and flat to the line of his body; white-hot ropes of come shooting up and slicking the skin. Lucifer splays his other hand on the small of his back as he shoves up and _comes_ ; adding to the filthy mess already coating him and Sam’s cock gives another weak spurt that runs down his balls and the skin behind, gasp of air like razors in his throat.

Sam slumps forward into the crook of Lucifer’s neck, breathes in the hot, sharp scent of him and tries to stop shaking so much, hurt whimpers with every shallow breath. He barely responds at all as the plug pushes back into him; seals the jizz and lube in behind it until he shivers hard enough to feel it in Lucifer’s body as well.

Lucifer kisses along the side of his neck, up his jaw and behind his ear. “You were perfect, Sammy. The way you let me in. Such a good boy.” Sam can’t answer, just rubs his face into the warm skin beneath Lucifer’s shirt collar, tongue weakly lapping at the salt.

Time skips and halts as they stay like an island among the moving sea of people, until Lucifer moves Sam’s head back with hand’s cupping his jaw, tilts him one way and another, and Sam tries to smile and keep his eyes open when Lucifer reattaches the leash and urges him to stand. His legs are shaky, even without the soreness between and the plug sending fresh embers of arousal through his body. The come on his chest is already tacky and pulling at the skin, until he wants to wrap a hand around his cock and spill across himself again; indelible proof of Lucifer’s ownership.

The tangled, knotted ball of humiliation is gone; lassitude and hazy blue-white mist shrouding his thoughts and weighing his limbs down.

Giving up on trying to look presentable; Lucifer leaves the shirt untucked and runs a hand through his damp hair, before kissing Sam hard and possessive, hand on the dip of his spine a distant reminder of the nakedness that for some reason feels _comforting_ now.

Definitely something wrong, and he _definitely_ doesn’t care anymore.

“Come on, Sam.” Quiet words against his puffy lips. “Time to go.”

Sam doesn’t argue.


End file.
